


Use Me Use You

by YesVirginia



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Horror, F/M, Forced Domination, Mdom/Fsub, Power Imbalance, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 19:30:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YesVirginia/pseuds/YesVirginia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And for a moment she can pretend that it isn't her who holds the power.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Use Me Use You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tatterdemalionAmberite (amberite)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberite/gifts).



> This is all Amberite's fault.

Artificial day on the ship but you aren't sleeping, you never do, your brain is too preoccupied controlling the vast organism around you. The processes are a net of glittering nodes, they tangle in branches where your brain has been warped to support them and open seamlessly through the open back of your head into the further mind, the nervous system stretching all through the ship.

And in the dead of the day something goes click, very quietly, and instantly you know that a lock has been turned and suddenly your powers are not restricted any more, not limited to being leeched upwards and away, suddenly you can surround the body with the glow until it fills the entire engine room, and there is only one reason for why that could be.

And sure enough she strides into the room and stands at the far end of the pool. The thrum of life and cruelty makes her seem far taller than she is, the heavy curve of her horns likewise. She's small, really, and seems smaller now, because she isn't holding herself like an empress at all. Her claw-hands are limp and her shoulders low and her head bowed not in calculation but something else and all of this spells out something you knew from the moment the lock was snapped off from around your power. There is no reason for anything to be given to you but for her to use it. 

"Psionic." Her voice echoes. She only ever uses the title of your old life when she wants to make a point, wants to unmistakeably tell you what is expected of you. You like it better when she calls you Helmsman, because then at least her voice isn't dripping with hypocrisy. 

"You know what I'm here for," she says, and dripping is really the right word to use, her words are soaked now in fake meekness, a sultry-breathy quaver that makes your gorge rise. "Please don't make me say it. You know what I want."

And woven into those words is the threat, the knowledge that if you don't fulfill her wish she'll find another level of hell to drag you to, but (and this is why you hate her, this is why futile pitch rage grips your heart) she blinds herself to her power. She has locked up your body and mind and made them fuse with the ship so tightly you can't even begin to see the divide, she has enslaved you and wants to forget that you are her slave.

You've resisted before, you don't resist now. You wait to test her patience, watching her from 360 degrees as she stands there and makes herself small and tries to shed the layers of royalty. You don't bother to gather enough spit in your dry mouth to speak -- she likes it when you blare it out of the speakers at her, so loud that it seems to overwhelm, so that she can pretend to herself it isn't her who has the power.

" _Strip_."

Her hands come up to peel the suit away, first from her throat, then from her shoulders, then past her hips until she stands there clad in nothing but gold. The feelers of her bulge curl around each other between her thighs and the stain of royal blood slicks them.

" _Come here_."

She steps into the shallow pool.

" _No. Not like that. Crawl_."

This time you hear the intake of breath, something sickly triumphant, you're giving her just what she wants as she sinks down to hands and knees. She stirs the surface, climbing over the slick roots with her hands. Her hair hangs over her shoulders like a cloak and trails behind her in the brackish water. She's looking down, not at you.

It's like acid in your gut, like ice in your brain, you hate her more for acting as if her on her knees makes you any less her slave, as if you have any real power, as if this isn't all according to her sick wishes.

" _Faster_." you snap through the intercom. You want this to be _over_  with.

She crawls faster, but not fast enough, and because you want her to move, you focus your powers. Her bare body is bedecked and pierced with gold that gleams in the organic engine-room light, even in the transparent fan of her fins and in more intimate places, and you take a grip on a few gold rings and pull forward, a few cruel little tugs to show her that you mean it. She yelps and slips and drops on her face in the water, sprawled like an overeager worshipper in front of you, and when she comes up there's a smear of oil across her cheeks and her hair is like seaweed. You see her mouth, open and wet and shaping a moan, this hit that tight twisted spot of hers as you knew it would.

She's right below you now, and there seems to be not much more to her but the parathenses of her horns and strings of soaked hair. Her face tilts up, now. Lipstick like blood is smudged into the corners of her mouth and her eyes are so wide and shining, as if you're the one who's taken her body and mind and strung her up and wrung her out, not the other way around, and you can almost understand her for an instant, understand her craving for balance. Still, her face makes you sick. You don't have to fake your contempt now. 

" _You know what to do_ ," you say, and when she doesn't react immediately, you grip her arms in too-tight binds of psychic power and force them behind her back, and then you wind sparks into the thick of her hair and drag her up by it. She rises into an awkward half-crouch pulled up by not much more than her hair, whining out a pained noise through her nose.

"Shut the fuck up, stop acting like you don't deserve this, and put your mouth to work." The flat tones of the intercom can't spit, but the meaning is there in the words anyways, and she catches it. You clench the psychic grip tighter in her hair and drag her right up against the growth of roots, her face pushed somewhere in the vicinity of your hip. She arches right up into the movement, to ease the pain in her scalp and because she wants this, opens her mouth, and licks a stripe inbetween the twist of wires, licks the acrid coating of oil from her skin. You can hear her moan, a thick, gratified noise. It makes you remember that you still have bile, it makes you want to throw up, and it stirs something in you all the same.

" _You're that eager to swallow filth, are you_?"

She doesn't answer, only drags her cold wet tongue around the swollen wire connections, licking up the blood that leaks from them in trickles. You catch her across the face with a jolt and yank back on her arms.

" _Answer me_."

"Yes I -- ngh -- I love nothing more," she says, thickly. Her lipstick is smeared across her cheeks and her eyes are shimmering wet with what this is doing to her and you don't think anyone has ever hated anything the way you hate her, burning to your bones and utterly helpless. You backhand her again with a bright flare of powers. It makes her head snap to the side, and she brings it around again heavy and slow and presses her bare breasts up against the thicket of wires and drags her tongue over the bruised patches of your flesh, as if you weren't a strung-up sacrifice but a god she was paying service to. 

Her face is filthy already with your blood and the slime coating the contacts and you aren't surprised when she pushes the long coil of her tongue between two thinner wires, wet and cold against your sheath. She stays cold and unstirred unless she's marked by your filth and fluids. 

Your bulge is barely stirring. It's something else but lust that seeing her like this is satisfying, it's a chance to feel some gleam of power and vindication, your body is only peripherally involved in what you're doing to her. But she works you open with the flexible tip of her tongue, snakes it around the emerging tip of your bulge and you can't help but react mechanically at least, hips twitching in your bonds when she licks and laves and slowly swallows your bulge down inch by inch, her throat cold and tight around it and spasming when she swallows. You yank her face against your crotch and make her take it deep, your bulge lashes and spasms in her mouth and she gags, yellow coating her chin, and swallows eagerly.

" _The Empress of Alternia is nothing but a trashcan. An garbage receptacle, a rag to mop up filth with_."

She moans around her stuffed mouth and looks up at you and her crown is knocked askew, her hair a wet tangle, to feel anything at all she needs to be like this and you have nothing but contempt for that. 

" _And she enjoys it. She's cold and dead unless someone pushes her face into the dirt, and then she's wet and eager to lap it all up._ "

You're urging her on now, the length of her tongue winding around her bulge, squeezing, her mouth wide open and her eyes blank and actually blissful, and this is going to end soon, you'll get a few long seconds of sick hard-earned release and then you'll get your goddamned peace back, so you push her, and when you feel your gut tighten and the shivery waves of heat start to build you let go of one of her arms and she buries it between her thighs with a choked whine and rides her fingers furiously, coming to her own orgasm in seconds while you spill hot down her throat and across her face. 

You grip her tight through the aftershocks and then when your climax winds down you drop her, and she collapes into a heap on the roots of the rig, shoulders heaving underneath the spilled-oil tangle of hair. 

You taste bile in your mouth in the aftermath. There's no satisfaction in knowing that you gave her just what she wanted, that it was her power all alonng no matter how much she pretended and you humored her.

When she stands up, she's covered with water and oil and stained with genetic material but there isn't even any doubt that she's taken the power right back into herself. Her shoulders are straight and her teeth show and the gleam of power is right back in her eyes. As far as you permitted yourself to sink into giving it back to her, she is the one holding all the cards, when you can't even die without her say-so.


End file.
